Travel

Flights of Fancy

The period following our return from Tanzania marked the beginning of intensive travel. It began in April 1967 when I was called to join a UNDP mission to the Caribbean to investigate the establishment of a regional development bank. Island hopping in small planes, landings on miniscule runways between sea and volcanic cliffs burned themselves into the memory. Noretta at this stage in her life was becoming nervous of flying. At a certain point, for her the one-time enjoyment of returning from America to Italy and home turned into fear of disaster; not of sudden hurt or horror, but of loss and separation. Nothing much has changed, but when we fly together, she is calmed at least by the thought that we would enter the next world together. Not leaving loved ones behind, moreover, is a trait of her family. In the middle of an earthquake with an epicentre barely 125 miles from Trento, a power failure and crumbling masonry, her father gathered the family around his bed and confirmed, 'How good that we shall all go together - but what a pity that John isn't here!' As it happened, at the time I was braving a different earthquake in Mindanao, in the southern Philippines.

The only flight that Noretta ever truly enjoyed was the last leg of a series of visits to the new countries I was reconnoitering after 1969. The itinerary turned out to be least costly as a round­ the-world-tour: Sri Lanka, Thailand, Hong Kong, the Philippines, a brief stop-over in San Francisco, then Washington DC for talks with the World Bank and IFC. Remarkably enough, with very little added from my own pocket, we were able to make the final flight to London - on Concorde. That journey has remained unsurpassed in my millions of miles in the air, from Imperial Airways and BOAC before, and BA and a hundred different airlines since. First, the somewhat ordinary terrestrial lift, like a thoroughbred shaking its wattles, then the crossing of the Maryland coast - and then full throttle and up with its sharp nose, pushing us firmly back into our seats to watch the mach-meter climbing to 1 and then way towards 2. It was afternoon when we left, but before long, as we reached cruising altitude, one could clearly see the curvature of the earth and, in the domed sky above, a distinct line dividing day from approaching night. All too soon it was time to prepare for an unremarkable landing, having stored unforgettable memories - and no end of cossetting by way of celebration. Three and a quarter hours from take-off.

For me, flying is an experience to be savoured. Unashamedly, I enjoy being aloft, looking down upon a world whose cares have suddenly been left below, diminished by altitude and distance from the point of departure. I enjoy this interval between two seemingly separate sections of one's life, the being and the becoming, for once clearly defined, at least by the destination written on one's boarding pass. If outcomes remain uncertain, the point at which normal existence resumes is fixed but still agreeably distant.

I am moved by the contrast between the temporary luxury in my space station orbiting at 600+ mph and the placid progress of caravans of primitive nomads scoring the desert sands below. I invent ingenious plots and stage settings simultaneously demonstrating these different faces of experience. Titles like "Planes of Reality" and "Flights of Fancy" suggest themselves.

Almost symbolically, my first flight had taken place in April 1939, from Berlin to Croydon, London's one-time international airport. It was a flight in two senses: not until the 12-seater Dornier had refuelled at Hamburg and we were well out over the North Sea did we begin to feel safe. It was also to remain the most expensive trip of my life: not only the cost of the tickets, but the passports, the exit permits and the minimal foreign currency allowance had to be bought for a King's ransom. Yet one never knew if, in the end, the official stamp - which conferred beaurocratic legitimacy on state robbery with the eagle and the swastika -would be honoured. Perhaps that experience has left me with a life-long optimism about arriving at my destination. For me, enjoyment of travel still includes the conviction that it is equally good to arrive.

Much later this was to be put to an even more fateful test, though I was wholly unaware of the underlying threat. During my time in India, the first jet-engined airliner, the De Havilland Comet, was entering into service with British Overseas Airways. It was a vastly exciting event, enhanced by the sheer elegance of the design and its all-new technology. By the time of my final return from India it already served Calcutta, but not the intermediate stops I was planning; though I was able to pick it up in Rome for my 'maiden flight' with it to London. Wherever I could from then on work it into my itinerary I did so, flying the London - Rome sector several times, before the joy went out of it all with its disastrous metal fatigue.

Dichotomy and often bizarre contrast - travel and arrival, participating in lives at both altitude and terrestrial level, opulence and poverty - was to remain a recurring theme in my life. In London I had learned early to live in two worlds, moving from contacts with the higher reaches of society to visiting hard-pressed friends in Bermondsey's social housing. Later I was regularly to experience the slums of Calcutta and Bombay, then crossing the road to life as a well-paid expatriate. Flying proved the ultimate resolution of these opposites.

Music could often enhance both the pleasure and the physical experience of flying. Coming in to land at Nairobi whilst glued to a Brahms symphony, I discovered that the swaying of the aircraft, the rhythm of the approach and the final acceleration all melded into an exhilarating syncopation, often perfectly synchronised.

Sightsavers International

Not all the travel was on CDC business. I had been invited onto the Council of the Royal Commonwealth Society for the Blind (later abbreviated to Sightsavers International), a superlative organisation founded by an eminent ophthalmologist,Sir John Wilson, himself congenitally blind from birth, and his eyes and alter ego, Lady Wilson. As the change of name implies, the weight of itsactivities began to shift from assisting blind people's participation in a productive life, towards prevention of sight loss. Major schemes were launched in co-operation with the World Bank and others to prevent river blindness, the silent scourge of much of West Africa; and with literally millions of cataract operations from India to Africa and the Caribbean. I recall visiting one Sightsavers clinic outside Harare, where relatives brought those who had finally become totally unfit to work. After often days travelling on foot, they were received into the clinic's male or female ward, each with six beds. Twice a week, surgeons performed twelve miracles in dramatically restoring these virtually blinded patients to normal life.

The Duke of Edinburgh's Award International Association

Long-haul travel was once again a critical feature of my days with the International Council of The Duke of Edinburgh's Award. Every school child in Britain will be familiar with this imaginative scheme, challenging young people to undertake programmes of self-fulfilment, be it in sport and physical prowess, study, community care, or even adventure. Devised by Prince Philip with the educationist Kurt Hahn, who had also been responsible for the Gordonstoun model, it is deliberately non-competitive, the only discipline being achievement of the targets you have set for yourself in your chosen programme. At the time I became involved, 32 countries in the Commonwealth and elsewhere, including the USA, operated this or a likeminded system. An international structure of Trustees and working level gatherings ensured that standards were kept high, innovations spread among the members and other countries encouraged to create similar facilities.

Prince Philip saw his own participation as the motive force, but later wisely brought Prince Edward to become involved as his heir apparent. As chairman of the international public relations committee I was privileged to accompany father and son to the annual meetings of the international trustees as well as of the International Secretariat. These took me to a miscellany of destinations such as Valetta, Mauritius, Adelaide, Wellington in New Zealand and others nearer home, fascinating for what one learned about human diversity and ingenuity as well as the achievements of young people and their leaders worldwide. Some of the shorter routes were served by aircraft of the Queen's Flight, surprisingly inelegant, not to say utilitarian craft, but serviceable and dependable.

Prince Philip - 'The Founder' - was always an affable host, though famed for not suffering fools - or sycophants - lightly. He ruled at all times, but with a hand lightened by his early naval service. The occasional lunches, garden parties and cocktail receptions he bore stoically, but mostly with good humour. On one occasion in the grandness of a reception in the Buckingham Palace Ball Room, I was with a colleague from the Award and observed him as he steered through the assembly with measured pace, stopping here and there to talk to familiar faces. As I watched him advance in our direction, I suddenly felt sorry for him, having to find a kind word for everyone, irrespective of whether he knew them or not. I decided to be helpful and volunteered, 'We are both humble servants of this splendid scheme you created.' He looked at me quizzically, then in his best naval drawl said, 'Can't be all that humble if you're here!'

6-year old Criscent was born in Uganda with Cataracts in both eyes, blinded until Sightsavers restored his sight.

Setting their own challenge for self­ development

HRH The Earl of Wessex with Gold Award winners at the Embassy in Prague